


The 7.15 pm from Manchester London Road Station

by ColThKnighthold



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: 14 -year-old- Harry, 15-year-old-Niall, 16-year-old-Liam, 16-year-old-Zayn, 17-Year-Old-Louis, A little angst, AU, Art-Deco punk (sort of), First Kiss, Historical Inaccuracies, Homophobia, Islamophobia, M/M, Some fighting, Who-Done-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColThKnighthold/pseuds/ColThKnighthold
Summary: In a world in Art Nouveau / Art Deco designs and Georgian morals with today’s technology and hygiene standards, a just turned sixteen years old Zayn has to solve the murder (with the help of his best friend who Zayn may or may not have a crush on) of his biological dad in order to safe his own skin.In which Zayn delivers Curries in Oxford, Liam is the son of Inspector Payne, Louis is a footballer for the Donny Rovers and Harry hangs out a lot in the kitchen of the Curry House of Zayn's family and Niall's dad has a Gym.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The story is inspired and loosely based on the unsolved murdered of a lawyer in the Netherlands on New Years Eve 1921.
> 
> I don't know any of the One Direction members or their family and I certainly don't know their sexual orientation.
> 
> It's just a story one I hope you will like.
> 
> Enjoy.

Manchester, Saturday 31st 1921.

It’s still dark outside when the alarm clock switches on and jazzy music fills the room. Big red blinking numbers tell the occupant it's seven o'clock and he needs to get up.  
Jacob White throws back his bed covers, stretches and switches on his table lamp, an iron stylized figure of a male body, on his oak bedside table. His eyes sweep around the room from the still closed the floor-to-ceiling green velvet curtains, to his oak desk in the corner by the window, the cast iron fireplace with thistle ornaments and green decorative tiles, the two crème coloured velvet high-backed oak arm chairs and long piled rug and oak small coffee table, the wardrobe and the door to his en-suite bathroom and the seven renaissance paintings along its wall.

He swings his legs over the side of his bed, slips on his slippers and walks to the bathroom tastefully decorated with green tiles, relieves himself, takes of his silk pyjamas for a quick shower and while he shaves looks in the mirror at his light coloured skin, light brown eyes with flecks of gold in them and brown almost black hair and moustache. His mother is Indian for his father Colonel White was in the army and stationed there before his retirement. After that he ran the head post office in Doncaster. Then his thoughts wonder to the fact that he still hasn’t told his parents about the child he fathered by the Irish wife of the owner of the Curry House on the Banbury Road in Oxford. Ten years ago it was when he started university in the summer of 1911. He can’t imagine it going down well. He was drunk and she was lonely. It happened just the once. But it had been enough. The owner Yaser had been so happy a son was born on that cold morning in January. Zayn, as the boy was called, had been born prematurely. His birthday almost two weeks from now. When he is in Oxford to see his friends he always stops by the Curry house to see him, even though Zayn doesn’t know who he really is, to him he is just another customer of his dad restaurant. But he always says hello to Patty, his mother.

When he is back in his room his curtains have been drawn back and his full English breakfast (an fried egg, baked beans, tomatoes and sausages) with tea, toast and marmalade, has arrived and has been put on the table at the window opposite his desk, courtesy of Mrs Carter (whose husband died in the war; the reason she has been taking in lodgers).

He gets dressed in a crisp white button down shirt, moss green tie and dark grey tree-piece- suit, dark green socks and his beloved satin slippers, before sitting down for his morning meal. While he eats he checks his messages on his phone. 

After the meal he goes with his briefcase and phone in hand down two flights of stairs to a little hallway. He picks up his dark overcoat and Bowler hat from the coat rack and with his briefcase in his hand and mobile device in his ear and phone in his pocket he leaves the red brick Victorian house on Piccadilly. He walks past the tobacco shop on the ground floor on his way to his place of work, solicitors office Harding & Reed in Deansgate, via Portland Street and Princess Street. The streets are busy with electric cars, electric trams and double-decker buses and a lone Zeppelin is gliding overhead. The streetlights casting yellow glow and large shadows on the shiny wet streets. 

It’s just gets light outside when he reaches the office and the streetlights switch off automatically.

In the hall on his way to his work office, he greets his secretary. 

He is distracted during his half day at work, thinking about his son and whether he should buy him a present for his birthday or not. And his friend, Drew, who he is going to see for lunch today. Drew came back with him from Berlin after Christmas to visit some relatives and a New year’s party in town. 

They have lunch together in a Tea House on Richmond Street. Dark and cosy.  
Afterwards they go to see a play in which Bernard Gay has a starring role. Bernard is a very good friend of Jacob and he goes to his dressing room after the show. Bernard congratulate Jacob with birthday and they exchange new year’s wishes.

Jacob takes Drew back to his place at half past three. For a drinks and listening to some music and a tumble in his expensive silk sheets. He lets Drew out two hours later in his dressing gown. 

He packs his bag with a few changes of clothes and a pyjama. He doesn’t plan on staying long, he never does. He doesn’t like his family very much especially not his cousins. All but one are married with children and they always ask him when he is going to do the same. His only sibling, his sister lives with her husband in America.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes Jacob walks to the station, where he buys a tick-et and has a quick bite to eat at the station’s dining room. 

Jacob walks along the platform where the train to Doncaster has just arrived to the first class carriage at the front. All the six seat compartments of this section of the train have doors on both sides. Jacob opens the last door. The soft yellow electric light casts shadows on the soft dark red velvet bench of this only tree seat compartment at the back of this carriage of the train. He places his bags on the dark brown wooden overhead luggage rack and makes himself comfortable in the far corner. A few minutes before the train is scheduled to leave a woman gets in and with a polite ‘Good Evening Sir’ and ‘Good Evening Madam,’ she goes to sit in the other corner the seat between them stays empty. At a quarter past seven the conductor blows his whistle, the doors lock automatically and the train rolls swiftly out of the station. 

At the next stop Sheffield she gets off. He doesn’t pay her much attention. He looks up how-ever when he notices movement again. Wanting to greet the new person. But all he sees is the silencer on the end of the barrel of a gun. He holds his arm for his face in a reflex to protect himself. The bullet hits him in his left under arm, it goes off two more times, one hits him in his left shoulder and the last and fatal one goes through his heart.

At Doncaster station his body is discovered.


	2. Oxford, Thursday 12th January 1928.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Zayn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we start the real story.

Seven years later, the monarch is still George V, the 34th parliament is in session and the Prime minister is Stanley Baldwin a conservative.

It's also Zayn’s sixteenth birthday but instead of it being a happy occasion, the whole day has been overshadowed by one event. The arrival of one card. A handwritten one, with no return address, not even a name. And it didn’t wish him a happy birthday either.

All it said was: “You will die by the bullet just like your dad. You’re one of them. I saw you boxing at Horan’s Gym.”

Zayn hasn’t shown it to anyone as yet. He doesn’t know what to do with it to be honest. Is it a hoax? Or ...? He needs to talk to his mum about it. But he really doesn’t want to. What if it is real and his father isn’t his biological father after all.

The old school way of sending a threatening letter or card this case, is really getting to Zayn. Stalking his accounts on Facebook and Instagram is easy and impersonal. But seeing him in person and coming to his house, knowing where he lives, that is something else and it is mak-ing him nervous. Who would do such a thing? Is it someone he knows, or has seen?  
He really needs to stop thinking about it and get on with his work. At the moment it’s a quarter past nine in the evening and Zayn is cycling on his electric bicycle through the streets of Oxford. He is on his way to his last delivery address of the day. He works for his father’s Curry House. The yellow streetlights are glowing on the wet streets and make strange reflex-ions in the puddles. He has to watch out for the cars and motorcycles which spray him when they speed past him. He shivers from the cold wind and the water that is slowly finding a way into his coat. 

Finally he has found the address and he hastily parks his bicycle and runs up the garden path to the door and rings the bell. It takes a minute and Zayn is tempted to ring the bell again, when the door swings open. And he is staring at a man in a silk flowery dressing gown and nothing else and it isn’t completely closed either. He can see the hairs on the chest of the man. He looks nice. The man is laughing probably at something. He hears people and music in the background. He is slightly jealous no party for him. The Curry House comes before everything else.  
‘Your curry, sir,’ Zayn stammers out, feeling very shy and out of his depth. He nearly shoves the bag with the curry containers in the man’s chest and is turning around to leave. When he hears the man asking if he doesn’t want to get paid for his service. Zayn turns back and takes the man’s money with shaking hands. He has seen naked torso’s before he has boxing lessons. But this is so different. He can smell the man’s cologne and hears the man’s laugh, sees his white teeth and pink lips and it makes him nervous. Somehow they remind him of Liam his sparring partner at those boxing lessons. He is the son of Police Inspector Payne and a lot more muscular then Zayn. He really is more into singing and art then fighting. But his dad wants him to be able to stand up for himself. So he signed him up for the lessons. Where he met Liam with his big brown puppy dog eyes. Liam who always wants to help him. Liam who makes him feel funny in his stomach. So very different than any girl ever has.  
‘Thanks, sir, have a good evening,’ He says when he has managed tear his gaze away from the man’s face.   
‘Yes, you too.’ Zayn hears the door close when he is running to his bicycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter two: Oxford, Friday 13th January.

It’s still dark outside, but in the main room of Horan’s Gym the yellow lights shine brightly. Zayn and Liam are sparring in one of the three boxing rings which are scattered around the room. There are other people about also training, like Niall the son of the owner, who is cur-rently punching holes in one of the punching bags which hang in the back of the room. It smells like sweat and wood and old blood. Liam is winning as per usual. But Zayn is also letting his guard down as he is distracted by Liam’s sweat glistening body and the fact that he didn’t sleep very much last night doesn’t help him either. He is still thinking about the letter and the man in the flowery dressing gown. It’s not a good combination, as Liam deals him another blow and then apologises profusely as Zayn lands on his arse.  
‘You’re distracted. What is going on?’ Liam holds out a hand and pulls Zayn upright. And after getting some bottles of water out of the fridge, Zayn tells his friend about the threaten-ing card he had received on his birthday.   
‘You have to ask your mother. She is probably the only one who can tell you if it is true what the card said.’  
‘Yes, I know but that doesn’t mean I like to have that conversation.’

Zayn has been hanging around the Gym all morning trying to stall going to his mum. Only when his shift is about to start at half past twelve in the afternoon does he go to the Curry House. There are already people in the dining room. He doesn’t pay them any mind as he makes his way to the kitchen where his mother is hard at work on the chopping board. It is hot inside, he can smell lots of different spices. 

Harry is already there too, it means he must be skipping school again. Zayn can relate. He hated school too and he is glad to have left the place almost eight months ago. Mostly because he was bullied. He thinks it might be the same for Harry with his big green eyes and mop of brown curls. 

He hates the name of restaurant Yaser’s Curry House. Not very creative. But then his father isn’t a very creative person, he does the books. It’s what he is good at. And his mother cooks the Malik old family recipes. She learned them by heart. She is not all that imaginative either. It leaves Zayn often to wonder where he gets his imagination and drawing skills from. He looked at his family tree. But there was nothing in it either. A spontaneous mutation in your DNA the oldest of his three sisters, Doniya, told him once. She wants to be a scientist. He thinks she might be good at it. She just might make it to University. He dreams of going to Art School himself. But he knows that is just wishful thinking his parents would never let him go. His father wants him to work in the restaurant. 

‘Mum, I have a question.’  
‘Yes, sunshine,’ she looks up from her chopping board.  
‘I want to know who my biological dad was.’  
He sees her stiffen. ‘Yes, I guess this day would come. And yes you have another father then your sisters. But your dad doesn’t know. Let’s keep it that way shall we?’  
‘So, who was he, my dad?’  
‘I don't know, he died a long time ago!’  
‘You're lying. Why won’t you tell me the truth.’  
‘Look honey its best that you don’t know. Just leave it alright.’  
‘Someone is threatening to kill me, just like my dad. So I can’t just leave it. I will find out who he was and why he was killed with or without your help.’  
She whispers a name: ‘Jacob, Jacob White his name was.’  
‘And how did he die?’  
‘He died in the War in 1914. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. Please don’t tell your dad.’

He storms out past Harry who calls after him but he ignores him. He wants to be alone. 

Half an hour later, he is sitting on a bench in the Oxford University Park. He stares at the peo-ple letting out their dogs. A zeppelin dominates the sky. He would like to be on it. In fact he wishes he was anywhere but here right now. It’s cold, windy and overcast when Liam comes to sit next to him. ‘I have been looking for you, Harry said I might find you here. What did your mother tell you?’  
‘She gave me his name, Jacob White, he supposed to have died in the War in 1914. But I don’t think she was telling me the truth.’  
‘What make you think that?’  
‘She hesitated.’  
‘I will ask my dad and we will go from there. Call me tonight and I will tell you what I found out.’  
‘Alright. Later.’ Zayn goes back home. He doesn't talk to anyone. Until after his job at nine when he phones Liam.

‘You were right,’ Liam tells him. ‘He didn’t die in the war. It’s a bit more delicate than that I am afraid.’  
‘Just tell me, Liam.’  
‘Well, he, he was murdered and the case is still unsolved. And there are rumours about him. And they well they aren’t very nice.’  
‘How bad was it? I want to know, he was my dad.’  
‘Come and meet me tomorrow and we will start our own investigation. We will have to re-interview all the people involved. For you to get to know about your father and to get a new lead in order find his killer. First thing we have to do is buy you a gun and learn how to shoot it. So you can protect yourself.’  
‘So the writer of the letter was right about my dad. But what did he mean you are one of them?’ Zayn is really getting scared now. Does he really need a gun for protection?   
‘Did your dad tell you I need a gun?’  
‘No, not in so many words. But your dad was killed by a gun. It makes sense. Well I have to go to bed. See you tomorrow.’

In his own bedroom his sanctuary Zayn stares at the ceiling. What did the writer of the card mean with “You are one of them.” Did they mean Muslims? Somehow Zayn doesn’t believe that? But what else could the writer have meant?


End file.
